


O Rose of May, Dear Maid, Kind Sister, Sweet Ophelia

by JackEPeace



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: 5+1, Beach House Verse, Canon Divergence, F/M, Fluff, sorta - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-25
Updated: 2017-06-25
Packaged: 2018-11-18 17:26:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,012
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11295297
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JackEPeace/pseuds/JackEPeace
Summary: Scenes of Fitz and Ophelia together at the beach house.





	O Rose of May, Dear Maid, Kind Sister, Sweet Ophelia

**Author's Note:**

  * For [plinys](https://archiveofourown.org/users/plinys/gifts).



> So I'm pretty sure the canon divergence "Beach House Verse" is my favorite thing so why not play around it in a bit more, right? 
> 
> The English teacher in me has been thinking about the name Ophelia pretty much since the episode where she revealed the name she'd chosen for herself and I finally sat down to write a little ficlet based around one of my favorite scenes from "Hamlet." It was originally intended to be a sort of take on the 5+1 format but I'm not 100% sure it matches completely.

**Rosemary**

The beach is so many things all at once, a discord of smells and sounds and sensations, a perfect flood for her newly human senses. It had been one of the main reasons she'd wanted to come here, that she'd created this place for them to start over, to build a life.

She had loved the beach in the other world, had longed for it in the same way she'd longed for Leopold. He'd taken her there often, whenever he needed a break from their work or he imagined she did and she loved to see the little smile on his face when he'd suggest they take the day off, steal a few hours for themselves, and slip down to the shore. The smile that had said he was breaking the rules and doing it for her, taking her someplace that he knew she loved.

It had been unexpected, that connection to the beach. She'd helped build and create and protect that other world to give herself a chance to be someone else, someone that Leopold might somehow come to love. She hadn't intended on becoming attached to something else, something other than him.

She had stood there on the shore, the sand beneath her feet, the water around her ankles and she'd been able to feel none of it. The sun above, the breeze that twisted through her hair had been nothing, a sensation she'd understood in the abstract, much like everything else. But, oh, how she'd wanted it.

Ophelia has it now and it's more than she'd possibly imagined. The heat of the sun, how it always seems to be high and hot overhead, how it reddens her face and shoulders if she isn't careful. She hadn't known to be careful, not before, and the sting in her skin had been new and Leopold had smiled at her, tentative and uncertain, and had given her a cold cloth to press to her skin. It had been a small gesture but a gesture nonetheless, a sign that he didn't resent her as much as maybe he had when they'd woken up that morning.

But now she knows; she knows about the sun and the sting it can leave behind. She knows how Leopold looks now that his resentment is fading. How he sits on the beach behind her, rooted firmly on their blanket, away from the water, content to watch her.

And she can feel the wind, how it always seems to be rolling off the water, chilly, salty and flecked with water. It plays in her hair, twisting it, tickling her cheeks. She knows now how it feels to be annoyed at such a small, inconsequential thing and how it feels to have Leopold reach for her, brushing her wayward locks back into place.

There's always a breeze and it always smells like the ocean, a sharp salty and briny smell that clings to their clothes and pervades the beach house whenever she leaves the porch door or the windows open. She knows now how it feels to tuck her face into the hollow of Leopold's throat, to smell the salt that clings to his skin, how she'd never known before that they brought the smell of the place back with them when they left.

But what she loves the most is the water, how it moves always, on and on and on, unheeding of anything or anyone else. Ophelia loves the waves, how they grow so large as they careen toward the sand but are nothing but foam when they finally reach where she stands. She likes the feeling of the wet sand beneath her toes, how it's soft and rough. She knows now that it doesn't feel anything like she'd imagined it would, all those little grains; how they manage to feel soft and smooth unless she rubs them between her fingers one by one.

In the other world, she remembers how it had been to come to the beach with him, how he had held her hand tightly, laughing and letting his hard edges fall away now that there was no one around to see them. No one but her. How he'd played with her, how he'd looped his arms around her waist and sent them both careening into the surf, wet and tangled together.

Ophelia looks over her shoulder, watching Leopold on their blanket. She wonders if he remembers those moments too or if he pretends that he doesn't. Does he pretend that everything between them had been dark and heavy? That he'd only been a terrible, cruel man, who had done nothing but hurt? Or does he also remember how he'd made her laugh, how he'd fallen in love with her and how badly she'd wanted him too?

Leopold catches her watching and smiles at her and the gesture is easy now. Before it had been difficult, she could tell and he'd felt guilty for smiling, for touching her, especially when both had been effortless movements. Things are different now, more comfortable; they're starting to get on even footing again.

Here, he doesn't come near the water with her. He doesn't put his arms around her, doesn't pull her off her feet and make like he's going to throw her into the surf.

Ophelia moves further out, until the water is around her knees and it's chilly, making the edges of her dress damp and sticky against her skin. Later the salt with dry and she'll itch and feel like her skin is stretched too tight, another new sensation. So many things to feel, things she'd never imagined. Including the pull to the water and the waves, the way it seems to settle in her chest until she falls asleep feeling like her breathing is synchronized with the tide.

Another step and the water is cooler against her skin, the sand colder against the bottom of her feet. She digs her toes into the sand, wiggling her toes, smiling. She's seen children playing on the beach, digging in the sand, sticking their hands in the wet sand on the shore and squeezing. She wants to do the same.

"Ophelia!" She jumps at the sound her name and only when she turns around to face Leopold does she realize she's gone out a few steps further, that the water is around her thighs, her dress floating around her. "Come back!"

He's shouting to make sure that she hears him but she can hear something else too in his voice, a thin edge of panic.

He'd never had that in the other world, especially not here.

Ophelia turns, dutifully following his command, not because she feels the same panic he seems to but because she doesn't want to make him feel it anymore. The wind is cold against her wet skin and Leopold is waiting for her, just on the edge of where the water hits the sand.

"Don't go too far out," Leopold says and he looks relieved when he takes her hand, pulling her toward the blanket. "The tide can be unpredictable."

Dangerous, she understands. He's told her this before. She wonders if something did happen to her if he would go in after her. Sometimes Ophelia isn't sure that she wants the answer.

Leopold settles them down on the blanket and her damp leg presses into his dry one. "Why are you afraid of the water?" She asks, looking at him, squinting against the sun. "You didn't used to be."

Leopold doesn't correct her when she phrases things like this, making the other world seem like a time that connects somehow to do this one.

Without answering, Leopold turns to look at the ocean, how it seems to stretch infinitely out before them. "I don't like to remember that," he says softly and something in Ophelia's chest stirs.

She wants to know. She wants to know everything about him. She wants to be as acquainted with this version of him as she is with the other. But she doesn't argue.

Maybe it's because she doesn't push that Leopold puts his arm around her. Why, when she lays her head on his shoulder, he says, "I'll tell you one day."

* * *

 

**Pansies**

Before, things had not been like this.

Her mind had been like a sieve, something she could regulate the opening of and filter out the information that she wanted. It was always knowledge, a fact or something useful that needed to be offered up or done, something that could help and organize, something meaningful and efficient.

Her mind had been a hum, slow and steady, like the machine in the laboratory Dr. Radcliffe had built her in.

Now, it's nothing like that. The steady, quiet hum is gone. Now there's always something in her mind, rattling around, words, images, phrases. She can't shut it off.

Ophelia breathes deeply, pressing her forehead to the floor beneath her. The floors in the beach house are tile, each square carefully laid by some unknown hand, and it's always cool. Her knees ache as she continues to kneel on the floor and her palms are pressed flat on either side of her head.

Still, it doesn't help, this fetal position she's put herself in. It's dark, both inside the house and outside and she'd opened the sliding door to the porch in the hopes that hearing the surf would somehow settle her mind. It hasn't, yet.

Ophelia squeezes her eyes closed, tries to focus only on the sensation of her breaths as they move from her nose, inflating her lungs, and back out again.

She's exhausted, every inch of her feels heavy and tired. Especially her mind. But it won't stop. It won't shut off.

She'd tried to fall asleep beside Leopold but it had been impossible. Even listening to his breathing grow rhythmic and even hadn't helped. Her mind had been moving a thousand miles a minute, reminding her of things that she might encounter tomorrow, things -menial human tasks that she now has to worry about- that she would have to do. There had been flashes of whatever inane movie they'd watched on TV that night, an endless loop of commercial jingles that she couldn't shake free.

And she'd thought about things before, things in the other world, things she'd done yesterday, a crush of thoughts and memories and sensations until she couldn't tell which ones were real and which she had just imagined.

And then she'd thought about Leopold, wondered if he was truly happy asleep here beside her. And she'd felt the pressure in her head and in her chest, the endless whirl of thoughts and fears and the panic trying to claw up her throat.

Even still, even when she's here on the floor, her forehead against tile, the thoughts and fears are cloying. And they just won't stop.

Ophelia pulls in a shuddery breath, leaning further forward so that the groove of the tiles bite into her forehead. It helps but not enough. Not enough to stop the endless cycle of thoughts: the weight of what she needs to do, the fear of making Leopold miserable, the stupid fucking endless repetition of a carpet commercial.

When she feels a hand on her back, she nearly screams. Not from fear but from frustration, the sheer, exhausted frustration bubbling through her body. She lifts her head, looking at Leopold. He's worried about her, she can tell. "What are you doing, Ophelia?"

"I can't make it stop," Ophelia tells him and with one hand she clutches at his wrist, hard and desperate. "I can't stop thinking. How do you stop thinking?"

With his free hand, he rubs her back, stroking her hair. She can barely feel it. "It's okay, Ophelia," he tells her softly. "You just have to breathe. You need to rest and-"

Ophelia looks at him and she can feel her eyes flashing, the way she almost wants to snarl at him. "I can't stop thinking," she hisses. "It won't stop. I keep thinking and thinking and thinking and it's horrible, it's all terrible." She squeezes without meaning to and she can see him wince slightly but he doesn't pull away. "Why is this happening?"

"It happens sometimes," Leopold says and he looks almost apologetic. "It…it's complicated." She hates that answer and he knows it but he continues, "It's part of being human. You have all these thoughts and worries and…it seems to get worse at night for some reason."

Ophelia sighs, letting out a shuddery breath, leaning against him. Her forehead is pressing against his chest and it makes her feel slightly better than the floor had. "I want it to stop."

Leopold gently takes her face between his hands, rubbing her temples with his thumbs. "It won't," he says softly, apologetically. "you'll just…get used to it. Try to clear your mind; whatever you're worried about can wait until tomorrow."

She looks at him. "Can it?" She isn't sure, not with this tightness in her chest and the thoughts running and endless loop in her mind. And that damn commercial. "I just want it to stop."

Leopold doesn't say anything. He just sits there with her, rubbing her temples until it's easier for her to breathe, until her chest starts to loosen up. Until his touch makes it easier to believe that maybe he's not miserable here with her.

* * *

 

**Fennel and Columbines**

It's easy for him to be human, she thinks.

At the same time, it's so very, very hard, she imagines.

She wonders at this man, how he came to be. Was he always like this: soft-spoken and calculating, assessing risks and making plans. Did SHIELD make him that way? Did his mother? Did something in the other world?

She can see it on his face, how he catalogues everything, considers the possibilities, the contingencies. It's easy for him to do this, to worry, to want the best possible outcome. It's hard for him to just be.

Ophelia likes to just be. It's still so hard for her to be human, to remember the vulnerability that came with her new flesh and blood and bones. She worries him, she knows; he's protective of her, how he'd been in the other world, but it means more to her now. She can feel a strange sort of warmth from it, from him worrying about her.

Leopold calls her reckless, dangerous, annoyance on his features. It's easy for her to forget, to get caught up in things, to want to see and touch, to experience. He is always reaching for her, grabbing her away from threats that she hadn't even considered, pulling her out of some danger he'd recognized and anticipated.

"You have to be more careful," he tells her and Ophelia can see that it's his worry making his voice tight. "What if I'm not around?"

And she looks at him, that familiar fear returning to her chest, tightening between her ribs and making it hard to breathe. "Where would you be?"

The expression on his face is one she hasn't seen before. Apologetic but almost annoyed, like he'd wished he'd never said anything. "I meant," he says and breathes out between his teeth. "That's not what I meant, Ophelia," he says softly. "I wasn't thinking. If we weren't together, temporarily."

Ophelia nods because it seems like the easiest thing to do.

A part of her wants to say _please don't leave me, I'm sorry._

A part of her wants to say _go, I don't want to keep you here._

She says nothing at all, unable to decide between these two warring parts of herself.

In the future, she thinks she'll be more cautious, less foolish, so he doesn't have to grab her at the last second and keep her away from some unforeseen danger.

* * *

 

**Rue**

"I'm sorry," she whispers in the stillness of the living room, and she worries that the sound of the surf outside the window will be louder than her voice.

But he reaches for her, a brief touch, a hand to her hip, and it lets her know that he's heard her.

* * *

 

**Daisies**

The apology comes two days after the fight.

The fight is their first, if you aren't counting technicalities.

She has a tendency to hover, she understands this. Now that she's human, she can understand her own emotions and tendencies while at the same time not understanding them in the slightest. It's frustrating, so ridiculously maddening, to see herself doing something and want to stop but feeling like she can't.

Ophelia wonders, sometimes, if staying in her previous form wouldn't have been much easier.

Leopold might have loved her better then. If she was able to control herself better, her thoughts, her movements, her actions.

He had explained to her weeks ago what an earworm was, that it was a ridiculous phrase for when a song got stuck in your head, an endless repetition. She wonders what it's called when you have a feeling, a fear, stuck in your chest, twisting on endless repetition.

"You don't have to do that," Leopold tells her and she feels guilty instantly. Which only makes things worse. "You don't have to be watching me all the time."

Ophelia licks her lips, uncertain. They've been here together for nearly two months and still she can't stop, can't remind herself to relax, to put space between them, healthy and natural.

"I'm sorry," she says and there's something to her voice, suddenly unfamiliar. Robotic. The way she'd been before. She shakes her head, trying to push it away. "I…I don't mean to," she pauses, considering. "Sometimes I worry that-"

Leopold doesn't let her finish. "I'm not going anywhere." It sounds more like a tantrum than a reassurance, a kid who's given up on fighting and is resigned to a grounding. "You don't have to watch me like you think I'm going to disappear."

Ophelia figures that should be enough, that despite the annoyance in his tone she should be relieved by his words. But still she says, "I just want you to be happy here, to want to be here."

Leopold looks at her, incredulous. It's more than just shock on his face, she can see; there's hurt too. "How can you still think that I might not be happy here?" He asks. "I've stayed with you. I love you." Again, more accusation than reassurance. "When you say stuff like that…it makes me feel like shit."

Ophelia swallows, tightening her jaw. There's a pressure in her chest, a buzzing in her head, something in the back of her mind telling her that there are different kinds of anger, that embarrassment can feel almost the same.

"I'm sorry that worrying about your happiness makes you feel like shit," Ophelia retorts with a roll of her eyes, a subconscious gesture.

Leopold shakes his head. "No, don't try to turn this around on me." He waves a hand, dismissive her words. "You're worried about _your_ happiness. When you watch me like you're my jailor it makes me feel like your prisoner, just so you know."

Ophelia bristles. "You aren't my prisoner," she says, horrified. "Why would you say that?"

"You're always watching me, always making sure that I'm here," Leopold says. "I'm here, with you. Isn't it obvious? What else do I have to do to make you stop?"

He gets to his feet, throwing down the book he'd had open on his lap moments before. "This is not normal, by the way," he tells her. "What you're doing."

Ophelia wonders if he's trying to make her feel better and is just failing miserably or if he wants to make her feel this way. "Yes, I know. You've told me time and time again how abnormal I am."

Leopold only shakes his head and it only makes her all the more upset. Anger, she's learning, comes in stages and she feels bottomless for it suddenly.

"I've done all of this for you," she tells him. "For _us_. This body. This life. I'm trying to be perfectly normal for you."

"That makes me feel like shit, too," Leopold tells her frankly. "This can't all be about me. That's not fair. And it's not true. This is just as much for you, Ophelia."

Ophelia looks at him, lifting her chin slightly. "If you want to leave why don't you just go."

When he looks at her, she can see the flare of frustration and anger in his eyes. "Because I don't want to leave!" In this world, he's never spoken like this, he's never yelled at her or anyone she's seen. Not here. "Why don't you understand that! Stop acting like I'm here against my will! If I wanted to leave, Ophelia, I would be gone."

Ophelia swallows with difficulty, her mouth suddenly dry. "Maybe I was wrong about the man you are here."

Leopold doesn't look at her as he leaves, slamming the door shut behind him hard enough to rattle the pictures on the wall.

*

He comes back hours later but they don't speak to each other. He sleeps on the couch that night like he'd done when they'd first gotten to the beach house, when they'd originally decided to give this a try.

She doesn't sleep, can't turn her mind off, not now, not without him beside her, not without his fingers in her hair, rubbing soothing circles on her skin.

She imagines he doesn't sleep either, mostly because she can hear the sound of the couch creaking every time he turns over.

*

The following night, she goes to stand beside him in the darkness. He doesn't flinch away and she can tell he's watching her.

"I'm sorry," she whispers in the stillness of the living room, and she worries that the sound of the surf outside the window will be louder than her voice.

But he reaches for her, a brief touch, a hand to her hip, and it lets her know that he's heard her.

"I'm sorry too," he says.

* * *

 

**Violets**

They walk together along the beach, out of the surf, hand-in-hand. There are so many things to feel here, so many things that she knows now.

The feeling of the sun, the sting of being underneath it for so long.

The feeling of the water, when she's close enough, how it's always chilly but somehow feels nice at the same time.

The feeling of Leopold's hand in hers, how it feels to have him close to her, the casual way their hips and shoulders will bump together. These unplanned touches that only make her want to touch him again.

And how it feels to be certain, when he kisses her, that he means it.

"Remember when we used to come here in the other world," Ophelia says because she thinks about it every time they are here together, in this world.

Leopold smiles and he no longer looks guilty when the other world is brought up. "We used to go all the time," he says. "It was your favorite." She nods and there's an unbearable lightness in her chest, fuzzing over. "And now you live right here. If you ever get tired of it, we could always go-"

"Get tired of it?" Ophelia asks, eyes wide. "Why would I ever get tired of it? How could I? It's beautiful."

Leopold is looking at her, the sun and the beach house behind them. "It is nice," he says. "I suppose it is the kind of place you could stay in forever."

Ophelia thinks about the word forever and how it actually means something to her now, the concept less abstract as it had been when she was AIDA and time was unnecessary and meaningless. It's funny now that she's human that forever seems finite rather than infinite.

Leopold puts his arms around her waist, pulling her to him quickly, knocking them both off balance and into the sand. She lands on top of him in a tangle of limbs and she's laughing, open-mouthed, when she kisses him.

**Author's Note:**

> The meanings of the flowers that Ophelia gives away in "Hamlet" are:  
> Rosemary for remembrance  
> Pansies for thoughts  
> Fennel and columbines -originally in the play intended to symbolize infidelity and foolishness; for this story I just focused on the latter  
> Rue for repentance  
> Daisies for unhappy love  
> And violets for faithfulness (though in the play she does say "but they withered all when my father died" but I thought I could employ some artist license and use them as my +1)


End file.
